Once in a Lullaby
by mickeylover303
Summary: Greg didn't stop fires anymore. He created them.


_There were images of red and yellow; radiant hues smearing into the impression of a little boy with a smile. Light brown hair was falling over his eyes as he readjusted the helmet that was falling off his head. He held a plastic axe in his hand and a gleam in his eyes as he ran through a long hallway._

Greg laughed bitterly when he felt the raw ache in his chest.

When he was three – six – eight years old, he used to dream of being a firefighter. They used to be the most fascinating people in the world to him; the comforting presence of tall men in reassuringly bright coloured jackets.

He used to tell his parents almost every day:

"_They're just so cool and I want to be just like them one day. I want to save people, too."_

A bemused smile on his face, Greg pressed his bare back further against the cool surface of the bathtub. He remembered it so vividly – _so clearly_ – and even now, the words unconsciously passed silently through his lips.

The fire department would make their annual visit to his elementary school one week out of the year. For the first four days, students would learn about fire safety, and depending on grade level, it would consist of colouring books, short films, pamphlets, and having a firefighter speak in front of a class.

But it was Friday that Greg would always look forward to. That was the day the fire department would bring the fire safety trailer filled with simulated smoke. It was a way to test what the students had learned earlier in the week and a way to stimulate awareness of their environment in case they were caught in a fire. Participation was voluntary, but Greg would manage to go through it two times – maybe even three – throughout the day.

Barely able to contain his excitement, he would stop as soon as he entered the trailer, immediately dropping to the floor and rolling; much to the irritation of the older students who were in line behind him. But their demand for him to hurry didn't bother him because sometimes they would do it, too. He was always aware of the two exits in the trailer; would always keep his head down to prevent the smoke from getting in his eyes. And he would never touch the doorknob because it was supposed to be hot.

When he'd reach the end of the trailer, he would jump down to where Eric would be waiting to catch him. Wearing a smile that never seemed to leave the fireman's face as he helped Greg to the down, the man would rustle his hair when Greg peered up at him. He would always congratulate Greg about doing such a good job; well aware of his fascination with the ideal that was associated with being a firefighter.

Though, it was when Greg was in third grade that Eric forgot to catch him the first time. And when Eric wasn't there to catch him the second time he went through the trailer, Greg didn't bother to go through once more.

And it wasn't until he went home later that afternoon did Greg learn that Eric died while trying to save a family from a fire.

The family didn't make it either.

Greg sighed at the memory, recalling the hesitancy of his parents' expressions when they tried to explain what happened. He uncurled fingers, the pain in his palm disappearing.

He wanted to believe that it was coincidental, but the day after Eric died, Greg found himself becoming more intrigued with what caused fires and less fascinated with the people who fought against them. Years later he would admit that it was a defence mechanism; an eight year old child's vindication to make the notion of death something appropriate. And even now – as an adult – he still had trouble comprehending the idea outside of a scientific perspective.

Though, after the explosion in the lab, he'd been violently reminded of that year when Eric died; when everything seemed to change and he was forced to face the reality of fire and mortality that hit too close to home. It was probably why he had trouble acknowledging the correlation between nearly being burned alive and his renewed vigour to make the transition from the lab into the field.

Yet, somehow through his need to leave the lab, he found a small part of him that still wanted to be like the firefighters he admired seemingly so long ago. And sometimes he wanted so much to concede that he _was_ really like them. Because what he did helped people – could actually _save_ people – and maybe in a way he was fulfilling some distorted reincarnation of a childhood desire.

And it hurt when he realised that he couldn't be that person anymore, when he realised that part of him was forever tainted and unobtainable even if it was only a semblance – a mere imitation – of the person he wanted to be.

Because he'd shattered his own dream.

Greg closed his eyes, turning away from the light peering through the bathroom window. He didn't know how long he'd been sitting on the floor, staring outside – staring at nothing – but he wouldn't be surprised if it'd been hours already. It didn't really matter because he just couldn't find himself able to look anymore. The sight of a clear, blue sky was making him too nostalgic and betrayed the reality of the dark cloud trailing behind him and the white clouds he wasn't sure he'd ever see again.

He balled his hand into a fist for a second time; knuckles showing faint traces of white as his arm began to shake. The sharp pain came back once more, expected and less subtle as the moisture in his eyes began to blur into the wetness in his palm.

Since this – _this_...

Greg pressed the side of his face further into the crook of his neck; ignoring the wet trails on his skin. His eyes were still closed, but he it didn't stop him from seeing _her_. He couldn't get rid of the agonised expression on her face; the horror and disbelief so tangible that Greg didn't know if he'd ever escape it. And he could hear her scream; her arms bound desperately around the body of her lifeless son and the sounds of her cries loud beyond the glass walls of the hospital room and still reverberating within the confines of his apartment.

And it scared him that he could hear her anguish echo through the voice of his own mother.

If only the situation had been reversed...

Greg inhaled, exhaling slowly as he let go of the knife in his hand, the metal clanging when it hit the tiled floor. He put his palm against his forehead, ignoring the stream of blood that was flowing steadily down his face.

He killed somebody.

A boy, he took the life of a _child_. He took the life of someone's son...someone's brother...someone's friend. And no amount of bruising on his skin, no amount of money afforded to Demetrius' mother could take away from the fact that he'd killed another person – no matter how everyone tried to assure him that it wasn't his fault.

Because he knew it was his fault. There was no way to explain it other than he was the one that did it and he'd never be able to take it back, rectify what he'd done.

Shakily, Greg reached for the phone on the floor beside him. He concentrated hard, trying to not to drop it as he dialled a familiar number. He put it on speakerphone; the dulled sound of ringing was taking him out of his trance as the blood spilled heavily over his palm, dripping onto the floor and seeping into the cracks between the tiles.

The ringing stopped and he could hear lingering conversation in the background before someone answered.

"_Greg?"_

"...Sara..." he managed to choke out, trying and failing to even out the tone of his voice. "I didn't mean to do it."

"_Greg...what's wrong?"_ Concern, there was concern in her voice. And Greg knew she only spoke slowly when she was worried.

"...I...I had an accident," Greg answered, feeling slightly more calm.

There was a pause and he took the time to notice the blood drying in between the buttons on his phone, the dark red stark against the white and light blue.

"_What kind of accident,"_ Sara asked with reserve.

"I don't think the bleeding is going to stop anytime soon."

"_Bleeding? Greg, why are you-"_

"Just tell me why, Sara," he interrupted softly, beginning to feel faint as he tried to open his eyes.

She was speaking hurriedly to someone, panic in her voice when she spoke to him again. _"Tell you why what, Greg?"_ He could hear her breathing heavily on the other end.

Or was he just breathing that softly?

"_Greg...tell you why what?"_ He could still hear her somewhat, fading slowly, but still unnerved.

"Why..."

"_Don't – don't hang up on me, Greg."_

"Why can't I..."

* * *

_:insert standard issue disclaimer here:_

_...It's not a death fic. It's just...I don't know, but Greg doesn't die. That's not the intended focus. He was just walking a fine line._


End file.
